


Going to Get My Feet Wet (Until I Drown)

by sweetbutterbliss



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Frottage, Gun Violence, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetbutterbliss/pseuds/sweetbutterbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't see Arthur until he's right in front of him, beaming. He's dressed in jeans and a worn t-shirt, his curls tumbling into his face, and has a streak of dirt smeared across his forehead. Eames resists the urge to reach for his totem as Arthur pulls off a pair of red gardening gloves and shoves them into his back pocket, where they hang precariously. He grasps Eames' shoulder with long fingers and kisses him. It's not chaste or even filthy, more like something bred of familiarity. A bit of tongue, but mostly closed mouth. Eames' hands are full and he's too shocked not to participate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going to Get My Feet Wet (Until I Drown)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution for the Inception Reverse Big Bang. My artist is Osaki-Nana-707 Please go check out her beautiful [artwork. ](http://osaki-nana-707.livejournal.com/65845.html)
> 
> Beta'd as always by [Heather.](http://haveyoumethoward.tumblr.com) If it weren't for her I would have nothing to show you.
> 
> Title from Ani Difranco's [Swan Dive. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AffMoaU2oD8) (I was listening to my angsty high school play lists. Sue me.)

They're sinking.

Time slows when you're dying, it turns out. Eames' vision is going gray around the edges and the shouts from the bridge are fading. He can still hear the whizz of the bullets hitting the water; they surround him, missing by inches. Until they don't.

He jerks when one hits him in the back, above his shoulder; not a fatal wound but that doesn't lessen the pain. He gasps, taking in the muddy water and choking on it. There's red blooming above him in the water and his vision is beginning to wink out. He tightens his grip under Arthur's arms, hauling him closer. Arthur will be furious at him for getting shot; his eyes slip closed, imagining Arthur's anger and biting words.

***

Damir leans against the doorway, watching Eames. Eames turns his back, listening and nodding in the right places, his heart thumping slow and painful. He hits end call, even though Arthur has already hung up, staring at his phone for a minute and marvelling at the utter bollocks of the point man.

"That was Arthur, then?" Damir pushes off the door jamb with his shoulder and steps into the room. His voice is soft, the slight accent swallowing the letters of Arthur's name.

Eames gives a curt nod and heads to the bedroom, knowing Damir will follow.

"And now you are packing, no?" Damir sits on the bed, smoothing the comforter with his hands, his expression deceivingly pleasant.

"Yes," Eames pulls out the false drawer in the side table and shuffles through a stack of passports to find one that won't get flagged going into America. He leaves the "Miles Calisto" folder on the top of the table, dumping the rest back into the drawer. Damir sighs and pushes him out of the way, pulling them back out and tapping them together neatly, before putting them back in and fixing the false bottom. 

"You don't have to jump and run every time your ex boyfriend calls you, Alex."

"He's not...we were never together." Eames is rifling through the chest of drawers, tossing pants and undershirts into the open suitcase on the floor, never turning to face Damir.

Damir pushes his way between the drawers and Eames, insinuating himself into Eames' space. 

"Just because he did not want a relationship doesn't mean that you weren't together," he fiddles with Eames' lapels, his voice matter of fact. "Or that you didn't get your heart broken."

He taps right over Eames' breast bone and Eames' face crumples. He backs up to sit on the bed, curling forward with his head in his hands.

"That was a long time ago. He's a colleague now. A colleague who's in trouble."

"Why not call other 'colleagues' then?" his long fingers make air quotes beside his head. "The one with the salad name. He should help."

"Cobb. He's not in the business anymore," Eames looks up at his boyfriend of almost three years and smiles fondly, "'The salad name.' You've never liked him. Don't pretend you don't know his name." 

"I wish I could pretend I didn't know who _Arthur_ is," Damir crosses his arms and slumps against Eames' shoulder. Eames twists and cups Damir's face in his hands.

"It's fine. Please don't be sad, _dragi_ ," he kisses Damir once, twice before releasing him and standing.

"You know, Alex. You never know it's going to be the last time until after it is."

Eames doesn't watch Damir leave, just hunches back over the drawers, blinking back tears and dropping clothes into his luggage.

***

The house he pulls up to is a surprise only in how normal it is. It's painted white with cheerful green shutters and a matching wooden door; the brass door knocker gleaming in the sun. He stands on the sidewalk blinking at the house and its uniform neighbors, nodding politely at a balding man in running shorts, a golden retriever at his heels.

He doesn't see Arthur until he's right in front of him, beaming. He's dressed in jeans and a worn t-shirt, his curls tumbling into his face, and has a streak of dirt smeared across his forehead. Eames resists the urge to reach for his totem as Arthur pulls off a pair of red gardening gloves and shoves them into his back pocket, where they hang precariously. He grasps Eames' shoulder with long fingers and kisses him. It's not chaste or even filthy, more like something bred of familiarity. A bit of tongue, but mostly closed mouth. Eames' hands are full and he's too shocked not to participate.

"I've missed you," Arthur says a touch too loudly, waving at the jogger who has stopped to stare.

"This must be the husband you've talked so much about," the man jogs in place while his dog keeps trotting forward.

"So it is. We'll probably see you this weekend and you can meet him properly. Right now I need to get him inside...welcome him home properly," Arthur wiggles his eyebrows and Eames reels.

This must be a dream; it's the only explanation. He almost drops his bags right there to reach for his chip, but lets Arthur lead him up the front stoop and in through the pristine front door instead.

***

It's not a dream.

Arthur's hiding from the Serbian Mafia, and the quickest cover he could come up with was an unassuming suburban architect in a gay marriage.

"We got married in Hawaii. Not recognized here in NJ obviously. I might need you to forge up a marriage certificate," Arthur's talking a mile a minute while he brews tea. Eames just sits and gapes at him from the kitchen table.

The tea is perfect, because Arthur was always good at that kind of shit. He knows how Eames likes his tea, when his mum's birthday is, and how to make him come just by tugging his hair and biting at the sensitive spot on his collarbone. Arthur is fantastic at the details. Not so much when it comes to the big picture.

Eames feels calmer with his hands wrapped around the sturdy mug, the smell of tea bringing back afternoons spent with his mother who believes tea to be a cure all. 

"Stop talking, Arthur," he grinds out and Arthur does, his mouth snapping shut mid-sentence.

"You made it sound like you were about to die an imminent death if I didn't come out here to help you. I left my boyfriend, who may or may not have broken up with me over it, to play house with you? You must be bloody joking."

"I'm in danger, Eames. I have to lie low, and I can't do it in this neighborhood as a single man. I'll look like a creeper."

"You _are_ a fucking creeper," Eames mutters nonsensically.

"Eames. Please?"

"Please isn't really going to cut it this time. I know you think you can say jump and I'll say 'how high?,' but this really takes the biscuit. Your arseholery knows no bounds."

"Leave then. I'll figure it out," Arthur turns to rummage through the cabinets as though he doesn't know exactly what's in each cabinet, alphabetized or something equally ridiculous.

"I'm already here, and it's not like I have a place to go back to now." 

Arthur turns and grips the chair across from Eames, his knuckles white against the dark wood.

"Thank you. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"It's not worth a whole lot," Eames pushes back the chair, pleased to see Arthur wince at the scraping sound it makes. He trudges up the stairs, finds the first room with a bed and falls face first onto it. A sleepless night spent trying to convince Damir he's really coming back, combined with jet lag, has him out in minutes.

***

They fall into old routines without even a single thought. Eames makes Arthur coffee with his pretentious Chemex, scowling the whole time and making idle threats about buying an actual coffee maker. The room Eames chose to pass out in turns out to be Arthur's bedroom, and they end up sharing a bed, falling in together and waking up wrapped around each other, ignoring each other's stubborn erections.

They go to a god awful neighborhood barbeque where Eames smiles and makes nice, and replies "yes, like the chair," over and over with a false laugh. He glares at Arthur behind everyone's back, who simply smiles, entirely unrepentant.

He jogs around the neighborhood, slow enough to wave and call out greetings, but fast enough that no one will actually try to keep up or make conversation. He thinks they should get a dog, then remembers that this isn't a real thing and runs harder, his feet stinging against the pavement.

He comes home after three weeks, sweaty and panting, toes off his shoes in the mud room and walks into the kitchen in socked feet. He reaches up and pulls off his shirt over his head, using it to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Arthur's sitting at the counter, the local newspaper spread out in pieces in front of him, and a plate sitting beside it, with only crumbs and smears of yolk pushed to the side.

Arthur's eyes are dark and he licks his bottom lip, silent and watching. Eames' heart speeds up and he feels flush beneath the sweat of his workout. He stretches his arms up, enjoying the feel of Arthur's eyes on him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he's not sure if he wants this to go any further. The choice is made for him when Arthur stands abruptly and leaps at him, long legs wrapped around Eames' waist and short nails scratching at his collarbone. Eames staggers once, gripping Arthur by the ass and hauling him up. Arthur is one long line of heat and it feels right; like things clicking into place. He shoves Arthur back against the wall a little too hard, rattling the spice rack and Arthur exhales deeply.

"You can't just go around sweaty and shirtless, Eames," he gasps.

"Oh, I can't?" Eames grins wickedly and slips his hands up Arthur's shirt, scratching lightly and watching him shudder beneath Eames.

"Not if you want this to stay platonic," Arthur tightens his legs and squeezes, letting his head smack against the drywall.

Eames is having trouble breathing, his breath coming in sharp pants, his head buzzing.

"Because we could ever be platonic," Eames punctuates this with a cant of his hips, their cocks dragging together through the thin material, sending sparks up his spine, causing him to moan. 

"I was trying to be so good. Best behavior. But you keep being so fucking hot...I can't..." Arthur trails off, arching his back and using the leverage to roll his hips into Eames'.

Eames slides his hands up Arthur's ass to his lower back, pressing him tight against his own body. The slide and give of Arthur's muscles under smooth skin make him clench harder, his nails digging in. He buries his face into Arthur's neck and pants wetly against him, rolling his hips up into the thrusts.

Arthur has only his shoulders pressed back against the wall and Eames has most of his weight held in his hands and around his waist. Arthur isn't small or fragile, but he stills trusts Eames not to let him go and the thought has Eames shaking into an orgasm with a strangled yell. Arthur laughs and pets his head clumsily before bracing himself again and pushing against him. Eames stands still letting Arthur use him and it's only seconds later when Arthur comes with a quiet exhale.

Panting, Eames slowly lets Arthur's legs slip down until he's standing on his own. He blinks and steps back, reality slowly filtering in. Sunlight filters into the cheerful kitchen, the spice rack askew and Arthur leaning against the wall with a dazed grin. He feels sticky, cum drying in his shorts, and suddenly he hates himself. He steps out of Arthur's reach and shakes his head at the quizzical noise.

"This was a bad idea," he pushes Arthur's outstretched hands away firmly. 

"What?" Arthur is always fuzzy after orgasm, not firing on all cylinders.

"I didn't come here for this. You...we aren't a thing anymore. "

"A thing?" Arthur asks, his voice soft.

"Whatever we were," Eames sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "It's not something I want to repeat itself."

"You don't want me?"

"That's not...I don't want whatever the fuck this is," Eames spreads his hands and pushes them out toward Arthur, before turning and leaving. He doesn't notice the way Arthur flinches back at his words, too busy escaping to the bathroom.

***

The next morning, after Eames assures Arthur he isn't leaving, they eat their eggs quietly. 

Eames ignores the stolen looks Arthur sends him and pushes out of the chair.

"I told Brad I'd help him with his car. Thank you for breakfast."

"You don't know anything about cars," Arthur speaks up from behind his newspaper.

"You don't know everything about me, Arthur," he means to sound playful, but his sharp tone makes Arthur wince slightly and lower his paper.

"I never said that."

"I had a varied childhood, poppet. You have to know a bit about how cars work to boost them without getting caught," he smiles, attempting to lighten the mood. 

Arthur nods and bends back over his paper. Eames watches him; the sun catching in his dark hair and making it shine, his hairy forearms twirling a pen, and the way his mouth moves while he reads the crossword clues. His chest tightens and he drops a kiss on top of the curls, retreating before he does something (else) stupid.

***

Brad's attempting to restore a 1968 Firebird. It's a bored, rich person's hobby, and it seems to mostly consist of fiddling with bits and then having a beer and talking about other cars. Eames shrugs and blinks lazily into the sun, failing to understand suburban ways, sprawled in the armchair, drinking the offered beer, the tips of his fingertips smelling of oil. 

Their manly bonding time is interrupted when Brad's better half, Gloria, comes out and offers them another beer. Eames accepts his gratefully. He feels drowsy from the heat and alcohol, relaxed almost, and his thoughts are blessedly clear of anything to do with Arthur. Which means he doesn't quite catch what Gloria is saying at first.

"I said, it's so nice to meet you finally. Arthur has talked about you so much."

She's standing with her hands on her ample hips right in front of Eames. Her sundress blows in the breeze and Eames sits up straighter with a curious tilt of his head.

"Has he now?"

"Oh, yes!" she laughs. "For years now. We had a neighborhood pool on whether this elusive husband of his even existed."

Eames frowns at her, sure he heard wrong. She steps back, laughing again, but this time decidedly more nervous.

"I mean no disrespect. I never doubted him for a minute, of course." 

"He's been talking about me for years?" Eames tries to make sense of what he's just heard.

"Since he moved in, what, three years ago was it?" she turns to her husband for confirmation, who nods and sips his beer.

"Three years ago?" Eames pushes himself up and smiles, distracted by this new information. "Right. That sounds about right. Three years. Can hardly believe it, it's gone so quick.”

Well anyway, I'm glad we finally got to meet you. You make a great couple. We're very progressive here, you know," she congratulates herself.

"I must go and find Arthur then. It must be time for lunch," he pats Brad on the shoulder and grips Gloria by the arm, air kissing her, ignoring her giggling blush.

"We need to have you over soon for dinner."

"That sounds lovely. I'll speak to Arthur about it," he waves as he crosses the yards, not bothering with the sidewalk. He's barely able to hear anything else over the buzz of anger and his heart beating wildly in his chest.

"Arthur!" he rages when he bangs the door open, the plaster crumbling when the doorknob hits the wall. He slams it shut and shouts out again.

"What the fuck, Eames?! I'm right here!"

"Oh hello, love. My dear husband. How long have we been married? Three years is it? Around the time you moved in? This isn't a bloody safe house! This is your home! And your fucking neighbors think we've been married for three fucking years!"

Arthur makes shushing noises, trying to calm Eames with his hands, his face rapidly losing color.

"You know what's hilarious about all this? I seem to remember you dumping me roughly three and a half years ago. Or can it be called dumping, when all we were doing was fucking?"

"It wasn't just fucking, Eames."

"It bloody well was. You made that perfectly clear," he steps closer, pointing his finger in Arthur's face, backing him up until he hits the wall with a thud.

"I was an idiot," Arthur looks at the floor.

"And then what, you came here to play house with your imaginary husband?"

"I just needed a cover and your name was the easiest. It's doesn't mean anything," Arthur's face betrays no expression, only his mouth twitches slightly at the corner.

"You're a filthy liar," Eames' voice rumbles low in his chest and he grabs Arthur's chin, forcing him to look up at Eames. Arthur allows himself to be manhandled with a resigned sigh.

"I am. And a coward."

"Explain. Right now."

"I love you," he barely whispers it, his voice pained.

Eames steps back and releases him.

"Fuck. You." he turns on his heel and takes the stairs two at a time. When he reaches the bedroom, he drags his battered suitcase out of the closet and begins upending drawers into it.  
Arthur stands in the doorway, his hands gripping the door frame so hard that his knuckles are white. 

"Eames. Please?" his voice pleading and high pitched.

Eames blinks back the tears and slumps over on the bed his hands dangling between his knees, his clothes scattered around his feet. He doesn't look up but hears Arthur shuffle closer until he can see his feet come into view. He glances up, Arthur looks wrecked and in pain. He looks cracked open and as though all of him is bleeding out onto the floor. Eames reaches up and pulls him closer, pushing his face into Arthur's hip getting the material wet. He can feel Arthur vibrating, his tentative hand gripping the back of Eames' neck.

"I love you," Arthur drops to his knees and presses his mouth to Eames'. It tastes like salt and Eames doesn't reciprocate. Arthur pulls back, his long fingers still stroking the back of Eames' neck. "Please believe me."

Eames slides his hands up until he can catch at Arthur's, and pulls them down and away from him.

"I don't."

"Don't love me or don't believe me?" his arms dangle at his side, and his head is bowed.

Eames makes a pained noise and pushes him back gently so he can stand and breathe again.

"I can't do this again. You truly fucked me up and I have to have some kind of self preservation."

Arthur just nods, picking himself up off the floor. He opens his mouth and closes it.

Before he can say anything or move, the sound of splintering wood and shouting interrupts him. Men in shiny, ill-fitting suits come pouring into the room with pointed guns. They're shouting in Croatian, and Arthur dives across the bed for his own weapon. He doesn't make it; a shot to his shoulder drops him to the floor in pain. He continues to crawl anyway, as Eames elbows an assailant behind him, hearing the satisfied crunch of bone and a pained shout. He's far outnumbered and quickly subdued to his knees, but only after breaking a few more noses and knocking one thug out cold.

The last thing he sees is Arthur being dragged out of the room, barely conscious, a rust colored blood trail smearing across the carpet. Then nothing but an explosion of pain at the back of his head, and darkness.

***

Eames has a blinding headache and he can't get his vision to focus. Everything is tilted to the side and the floor is moving roughly beneath him.

"Eames?"

He groans in reply to the whisper beside him. He turns his head slowly and fights the urge to vomit all over himself. When he opens his eyes, he blinks the light shining through the windows, and notes that it's changed. He rolls over and sees Arthur in a heap next to him, his hands zip tied, the tips of his fingers tinted blue. They're rattling around in a greasy van, old cans and fast food rubbish sliding across the floor when the driver takes a turn.

"Arthur?"

Arthur opens his eyes slightly, and smiles weakly. "Hey. Fancy meeting you here."

Eames bites back a sob and wiggles closer. They hadn't bothered to tie him up and he hoped he could use it to his advantage. He cups Arthur's face in his hands, tutting when Arthur winces. He pets him clumsily and presses his mouth against Arthur's bloodless lips. Not really a kiss, more of a reassurance that he's here. Eames has a terrifying feeling running around his head, like a rat trapped in a maze. He needs to touch and memorize; Arthur is almost colorless and his eyes are dilated when he's able to keep them open. His arm doesn't seem to be bleeding anymore but his sleeve is stiff with blood. Eames bundles him closer, pressing dry kisses to his face.

"M'sorry, Eames."

"Shhh. Nothing to apologize for. I love you too. Okay? I know you can hear me. I love you and you have nothing to be sorry about, darling."

The van screeches to a halt and he hears muffled shouts outside. The door flings open and two men with large guns drag them out, not bothering when they stumble through the mud, or when Arthur's feet catch on each other and he almost falls face first before his captor hauls him up with a curse.

The empty beach stretches for miles; the ocean roils and heaves beneath the setting sun. He can make out more goons standing near the end of rickety dock. It feels as though it takes an eternity to reach the end; he's losing time and he's positive he has a severe head injury. They're deposited without ceremony in front of a bench set up near the water's edge. There's a man taking up the whole bench, his thin, unsmiling lips give him the unpleasant impression of a pasty, obese frog. Eames imagines him using his tongue to catch flies and he lets out a hysterical giggle. The man raises an eyebrow and waves a hand toward the group behind him. Every last finger is covered in rings and they flash in the dying sunlight.

Eames squints, because someone with Damir's blonde hair and blue eyes is bending over to help him stand. "Come, Alex. I have you then."

" _Dragi_?" he mutters, his head lolling forward against Damir's shoulder.

"Yes. It's me," he grips Eames around the wrist and drags the other arm across his neck, holding him tightly. Eames leans all of his weight on the smaller man.

"I don't understand."

"I'm here to take you home."

"What about Arthur?" he attempts to take a step away but Damir grips him closer.

"Ah, Arthur," the man on the bench interrupts, his hands steepled under his many chins. "He is no longer your problem. He is a traitor and must be dealt with."

The man's accent is thick enough that Eames has trouble following his English.

"Uncle Boska has agreed to spare you for me."

"Uncle whatsit?" Eames can't make his brain understand, so he shuts his eyes tight and gives his head a little shake. It only scrambles things up more, and he rolls his eyes open again.

Uncle Boska, apparently, stands and nudges his wingtips against Arthur, who doesn't move or make a sound.

"You bring him half dead already? I do not get the pleasure of killing him. This displeases me greatly," he heaves his shoulders with a dramatic sigh. "Oh well. We will just let him drown." 

With one swift kick, he rolls Arthur off the edge of the dock. The sound of a heavy splash settles in Eames' ears, and awakens something in him. 

Eames hears shouting from far away. His throat is raw and he suddenly knows it's own screams he can hear. Damir's hands are scrambling at him, but he swings and is suddenly free; he dives into the water and is surprised to note how warm it is. But, it's also murky and the light is rapidly fading when he catches hold of Arthur's sinking body.

***

Eames gasps awake at the roaring pain in his arm; a strong hand is pressing tightly against the wound and Eames can't get away.

"It looks through and through. We need to get it clean though, that water is a fucking cesspool."

A more gentle hand pushes his hair back and makes shushing noises at him. He recognizes the soft voice and uses his free hand to fumble at the man's shirt. He pulls him closer until his ear is within hearing range.

He tries to speak but manages only a croak, his throat raw and on fire. Damir pushes his arm down and pats it gently.

 

"You are such a fool, my love," he murmurs, while the other man ties Eames' arm off. He looks, but doesn't recognize him; a hardened scrawny man with a lit cigarette bobbing around in his mouth.

"Arthur?" he manages, before giving up and closing his eyes.

"He's alive. Thanks to your heroics." Damir spits it out as though the word is distasteful. "I have convinced my uncle to release you both. It is the last favor I will do for you."

Eames can do nothing but gape at him, nodding slightly. Damir grips his chin tightly and kisses him. It's broken, and Eames doesn't get a chance to react before Damir pulls away.

"Listen. Do you remember when I told you that you never know it's the last time until it's already happened? Be assured, this is the last time. I saved your life and you will repay me by making sure I do not see your face again."

"M'sorry," Eames brushes a trembling hand across Damir's face.

"Oh, my love. Do not be sorry. You cannot help who you love. I know this for sure," he stands abruptly and barks orders at the men standing around him.

Eames lets his head loll to the side and sees Arthur. It isn't any kind of relief, his body is unmoving and his face the color of chalk. One of his hands is flung to the side and Eames can just make out the twitch of one long finger. He wants to reach out and feel it, reassure himself of its returning warmth, but he's still unable to move; he just lets his head roll back to stare at the sky.

Epilogue - 

It takes them a while to recover. Spending over a month in the safe house Damir provides. They live under the care of a terrifying old woman who doubles as a doctor cum nagging grandmother, standing over them until they eat their soup, and changing bandages. She admonishes Arthur daily for doing too much before he's ready. Her cure for their unspoken sadness is more soup and extra blankets, telling them to be good for each other.

"Love is the ultimate medicine," she proclaims, as she hugs them goodbye.

It takes them considerably longer to heal their emotional wounds. Eames takes his leave without a word and goes back to his usual hiding place in Mombasa, sleeping on Yusuf's couch and eating food that makes the roof of his mouth burn. He gambles and drinks and goes to bed alone.

He can't help thinking of Arthur all the time. Yusuf's new wife would love Arthur, with his polite manners and shy smile, and he'd probably love the food and the way it makes you sweat. He'd hate the gambling, but he'd never let Eames go to bed alone.

"I'm a bloody idiot."

"Yes, you are," Yusuf agrees blindly.

"I need a flight to New Jersey," Eames pulls Yusuf's laptop out of his hands.

"Oh yeah, sure, take it," Yusuf grumbles but Eames ignores him, concentrating on getting the wonky touchpad to respond.

***

He pulls up to the still neat house. There are no cheerful flowers or friendly joggers this time. Just Eames, freezing his ass off on the sidewalk. He swings the gate open and trudges up the path, his feet crunching in the thin cover of snow. He makes it to the steps when he hears the door swing open.

"Eames?"

"It's me, darling. All bundled up I'm afraid."

"Come in," Arthur steps back and swings the door open wider.

The house is the same, Eames notices his own trainers still muddy and shoved haphazardly onto the shoe tree. He toes his boots off, taking the time to unravel his scarf and tug off his gloves. He shoves them into the pocket of his jacket so he doesn't lose them; Eames goes through a lot of gloves during the winter. Shrugging off his jacket, he folds it over his arm, and looks up to see Arthur standing in the doorway, in pajamas and stocking feet, wearing his glasses and one of Eames' t-shirts.

He looks frozen, his eyes wide and staring, and his mouth hanging open.

Eames drops his carefully arranged outerwear onto the floor, making a mess of the expensive carpet and stepping into Arthur's space. He runs a thumb over his bottom lip, replaces it with his mouth, then wraps his arms around Arthur, who melts against him and kisses back. The kisses turn hasty, all clashing teeth, and Arthur's arms around his neck pull him closer.

They stand in the hallway embracing each other and quickly losing their breath. Eames breaks away with a gasp, his chest heaving. He buries his face in Arthur's neck and slides a hand up to tangle it in his curls, tugging gently.

"I love you," his voice is muffled, but Arthur understands.

"I love you, too."

Eames leans back to look Arthur in the eye. "This is it, darling. I want you, in this house, with these nosey neighbors. No more pretending."

Arthur nods in agreement. "No more pretending," his voice is hoarse and he swallows loudly.

"Alright. And I want a real marriage certificate with our actual names. And I want the most expensive ring you can buy me," Eames starts to back Arthur up the stairs, pressing kisses to his face, neck, and mouth.

"What? Really?"

"No, I take it back. I demand a proposal. Something dead romantic and that makes me shed a tear. I think it's the least you can do."

"Yeah. Yeah it probably is," Arthur laughs into his mouth and pulls him into their bedroom by his shirt, shutting the door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hit me up on [tumblr. ](https://www.sweetbutterbliss.tumblr.com)


End file.
